“That,” said Mr. Tarworth, “is the Spirit of the Tragedy--both of the Red Indians who initially, and of our Whites who subsequently, sold ’emselves and their heritage for the Firewater of the Paleface. The Captions run in diapason with that note throughout. But for a Film Appeal, you must have a balanced _leet-motif_ interwoven with the footage. Now this close-up of the Red Man I’m showin’ you, punctuates the action of the dramma. He recurs, sir, watchin’ the progressive degradation of his own people, from the advent of the Paleface with liquor, up to the extinction of his race. After that, you see him, again, more and more dominant, broodin’ over an’ rejoicin’ in the downfall of the White American artificially virg’nised against Alcohol--the identical cycle repeated. I got this shot of Him in Oklahoma, one of our Western States, where there’s a crowd of the richest Red Indians (drawin’ oil-royalties) on earth. But they’ve got a Historical Society that chases ’em into paint and feathers to keep up their race-pride, _and_ for the Movies. He was an Episcopalian and owns a Cadillac, I was told. The sun in his eyes makes him look that way. He’s indexed as ‘Rum-in-the-Cup’ (that’s the element of Popular Appeal), but, say”--the voice softened with the pride of artistry--“ain’t He just _it_ for my purposes?” He passed me the second photo. The cigar rolled again and he held on: “Now in every Film Appeal, you must balance your _leet-motif_ by balancin’ the Sexes. The American Women, sir, handed Prohibition to Us while our boys were away savin’ _you_. I know the type--’born an’ bred with it. She watches throughout the film what She’s brought about--watches an’ watches till the final Catastrophe. She’s Woman Triumphant, balanced against Rum-in-the-Cup--the Degraded Male. I hunted the whole of the Middle West for Her in vain, ’fore I remembered--not Jordan, but Abanna and Parphar--Mrs. Tarworth’s best friend at home. I was then in Texarkhana, Arkansas, fixin’ up a deal I’ll tell you about; but I broke for Omaha that evenin’ to get a shot of Her. When I arrived so sudden she--she--thought, I guess, I meant to make her Number Two. That’s Her. You wouldn’t realise the Type, but it’s _it_.” I looked; saw the trained sweetness and unction in the otherwise hardish, ignorant eyes; the slightly open, slightly flaccid mouth; the immense unconscious arrogance, the immovable certitude of mind, and the other warning signs in the poise of the broad-cheeked head. He was fingering the third photo. “And when the American Woman realises the Scope an’ the Impact an’ the Irrevocability of the Catastrophe which she has created by Her Presumption, She--She registers Despair. That’s Her--at the finale.” It was cruelty beyond justification to have pinned down any living creature in such agony of shame, anger, and impotence among life’s wreckage. And this was a well-favoured woman, her torment new-launched on her as she stood gripping the back of a stamped-velvet chair.